


Dream Until Your Dream Comes True

by Whreflections



Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Canon Compliant, F/M, Family, Gen, One Shot, Season/Series 04, dream fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter can’t exactly say the dreams are “haunting” him, because no stretch of the imagination could make them nightmares. Still, sometimes, just because something is good doesn’t mean it makes things better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Until Your Dream Comes True

He’d fallen asleep on the couch again. It wasn’t exactly surprising, not when it was so hard to drag himself upstairs to a bed that was a mockery of the one he’d known, just like everything else in this house. He’d been fine with sleeping in it alone before, back when it had only ever been just him and Walter in this house, but despite the fact that he’d told Olivia he could get used to mornings like that last good one they’d had, he’d been skating around the truth.   
  
He was already used to it, used to the warmth of her beside him and the way she felt in his arms, used to making love to her and kissing her goodnight and feeling her fingers drag through his hair when she thought he was still sleeping. All of it had become part of his life, part of everything that was  _home_  and hauling himself up the stairs to sleep in that empty bed without her actually proved physically painful. The couch was where he ended up more often than not, half the time still in his clothes and sometimes with a bottle of whiskey wedged in beside him. That was a whole other black hole, the whiskey, because she loved it and he knew now how it tasted on her tongue and the more the taste of his own drinks reminded him the more drinks he needed if he wanted to feel a little more sane. A never-ending spiral.   
  
That was the first thing he knew when he woke up, that he hadn’t made it to the bed. Behind him the arm of the couch dug just a little into his spine, the bottle beside him doing the same to his thigh. He almost wanted to say that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been comfortable but he actually could, all too well.   
  
It was the usual inventory he took when he woke up these days, where he was, whether he was hungover, whether it was still the middle of the night, but  _this_  time he was cut off sharp in his thoughts, a scent from the kitchen drawing everything into a screeching halt.   
  
He could smell cinnamon, warm sugar laced cinnamon that wafted out of the kitchen. There was light spilling out from the door, and he could hear the way the floorboards closest to the sink creaked as footsteps hit them. He was more than smart enough to know that someone in his house should’ve had him reaching for the nearest weapon, at the very least calling his detail outside to come  _in_ , but either of those would’ve meant he had to think. He was all reflex only, a mix of familiarity and desperate need driving him to his feet to lean against the doorframe.   
  
Impossibly, Walter was there, hovering over the stove. Scraps of paper that looked like they’d all been pulled from a single volume of the  _Encyclopedia Britannica_  littered the table, and Walter was marking something off on his hand with silver Sharpie.   
  
“Walter,-“ It came out scratchy, and he cleared his throat just as Walter looked up and over at him for the first time. “You could’ve told me you needed the oven; I’d get out of your way.” Much as it pained him, he’d do it. Honestly, it’d actually hurt a hell of a lot less if he wasn’t here, because if he wasn’t here he wouldn’t have to remember, wouldn’t have to see the look of near hatred in the eyes of the man who had so many times looked at Peter like he was life and breath and all the sustenance he’d ever need. It was bad enough, missing Walter when he wasn’t feet away.   
  
“Nonsense, Peter, you’ve almost slept through all of it! Hear, now, let me see you.” There weren’t many steps between them, and when Walter’s hand pressed against his cheek Peter could feel the fresh ink smudging against his skin. “You look pale, Peter, did you eat anything? I would have waited for you, but Astrid took me to the most delightful-“  
  
“I’m fine, Walter, I had dinner hours ago, but you…” Here, he struggled, because there were two options. Lately, he’d been having dreams of his family, of Olivia in his arms under the sun, of the way Walter laughed when Peter told a story he knew would make him smile. Even at that moment there was a tiny part of him, a fleeing logic that told him he  _had_  to be dreaming, but he could smell the cookie dough on Walter’s fingers, the familiar comforting scents that were uniquely Walter himself and that of their home hovering underneath the baking. If it was a dream, his mind was damn good about it.  
  
“What are you doing here, Walter?”   
  
Walter’s fingers traced his face, from the corners of his eyes up to his temples and back down to his cheeks. There were times in the beginning he’d been impatient with moments like this, times just after he’d come back from the other side that he’d even pulled away from it but he hadn’t realized what he had, then. He stood stock still, everything in him frozen but the movement of his throat as he swallowed hard to fight the internal sting. These weren’t the hands of a man who denied Peter was his son, they were the hands of his father, and it was enough. For his sanity, he had to believe, even if he knew,  _had_  to know that it couldn’t be.   
  
“They’re called snickerdoodles; I’ve always loved that word. Your mother, she used to make them in the winter. She said with the cinnamon they were an inherently  _warm_  cookie, and with all the trouble you’ve been having with these horrible nightmares about alternate timelines-“  
  
“What?” Against his will, Peter’s pulse jolted. No, no, it couldn’t, he couldn’t have…  
  
He could honestly see the worry pooling in Walter’s eyes, and for just a moment he was clearly studying Peter just a little closer before a timer dinged softly just behind him to remind Walter to get the cookies out of the oven. There was only a last excited smile then, a soft pat against Peter’s cheek and then he was busying himself with a cookie sheet and an oven door he left standing wide open.   
  
“No one is doubting you did the right thing by getting in the machine, son, even I have to admit that…to be honest, without you, I can imagine all too well where we might be.” From his angle he couldn’t see Walter’s face, could only hear the pain that dragged it down and pushed away the last of his smile. Peter was drawn to it, barely caught the way his own hands twitched uncertainly in the air between them. Once, reaching out to Walter had been instinct. Here, he’d learned fairly well to hold himself back on most occasions, leaving him torn enough that it took an actual decision to squeeze Walter’s shoulders in reassurance. This Walter,  _his_  Walter would never pull away, he knew it, and he relaxed just a little under Peter’s hands. “I mean nothing against what you did, Peter. But you can’t tell me you’re alright; you’re restless, you’re not sleeping, your dreams when you do are horrible… _Peter_ -“  
  
The next cookie stuck to the tray, stubbornly refusing to be lifted onto an old plastic spatula. Peter saw it coming just before the strike, caught Walter’s wrist as he jerked his arm back to harpoon the cookie on the spatula’s handle.   
  
“Whoa, Walter, hey,  _hey_ , look at me. Look at me, Walter.” Here, in this world that might or might not be in his mind, sometimes Walter listened.   
  
His eyes wavered, the beginning of tears glinting in the corners. They were for him, always for him, and Peter never failed to hate himself a little for it.   
  
“I’m alright, Walter. Ok? I’m alright. If I’m having nightmares, that’s not exactly surprising is it? I’m sure they’ll go away.” Or he’d wake up from  _this_  decidedly  _non_ -nightmarish vision. Or, Walter was right and his brain was beginning to show long term effects of exposure to the machine, in which case nightmares just might be the least of his worries.   
  
Against the plate Walter’s hand trembled, and Peter slid his hand down to lock his fingers with his father’s, squeezing until he felt strength in Walter’s grip.   
  
“Did you have the dream again?”   
  
For a minute he had the urge to tell him no, absolutely not, that he hadn’t dreamt of anything at all. On the chance, though, the  _chance_  that this was the real world, he couldn’t exactly hide a symptom. Instead, he got it out as quick as he could.   
  
“Yeah, I did, but there’s only so much I remember and obviously it’s over now. Who knows, these dreams could just be a harmless side effect of linking my brain to a device that can alter all of time and space. I wouldn’t think it’d exactly be possible to do that without any changes cropping up.” Peter squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back to the moment. “Walter, this didn’t end with my eyes burning out. I say we count that as a win.” Maybe. If things went back to normal and the rest of the universe didn’t implode around them.   
  
That much Walter had to acknowledge, though he nodded quick and brought his eyes back to the cookie plate with near laser focus, latching onto the first distraction that had nothing to do with the image in his mind of his boy burning from the inside. Crumbs brushed easily off the edge of the plate, scattering across the already dirty stove.   
  
“I wish you’d have a cookie. Your mother always said-“  
  
Letting go of Walter’s hand, Peter scooped up a cookie teetering precariously on the far edge of the plate before them. Honestly, considering how often Walter made things he nearly(or sometimes literally) got forced to try, this was one food he wouldn’t be afraid of so long as Walter kept making it at home. It  _did_  taste warm, full of a sugar and flashes of the lake house kitchen, his mother smiling at him from across the table.   
  
He smiled, rubbed Walter’s shoulder as he swallowed. “It’s great, Walter. Thank you.” He doubted it’d help him rest, but for  _him_ , that wasn’t really the point. Honestly, he’d be happy to stay up all night there in the kitchen with Walter soaking in the life he’d never reveled in quite enough, not even near the end. Walter’s smile was back in place as he scooped the rest of the cookies off the tray, though Peter could see the worry in the crinkled edges of his eyes. All of this, he knew it  _better_ than the back of his hand.   
  
“You really should get some rest, Walter. You should go on to bed; I’ll clean up, ok?”   
  
“Olivia called, while you were sleeping.” He might’ve heard Peter and he might not have; sometimes it was impossible to tell. He was still finishing up with the spatula, though he paused to wave it in the direction of the phone, scattering crumbs across the floor. “It was about her and Ella tomorrow afternoon, you’re taking them…I can’t remember, but I think I wrote it down in the telephone book.”   
  
Peter could picture it, how perfect that would be if they managed to keep the day off. Ella loved the Franklin Park Zoo and he’d thought for awhile that next time she came into town that’d be the first place they needed to hit. She could fawn over the tigers to her hearts content, see the old lion, clouds of butterflies. Every opportunity he’d had to spend around her and Olivia once they’d been together had been a reminder not only of why Olivia loved that little girl so much but how good she was at it, how good  _they_  could be, someday. Someday.   
  
“I think I’ll-“  
  
“Bishop.”   
  
Peter’s eyes snapped open, tensing in the moment before he realized that the not quite cold voice that had startled him awake was Lincoln’s. He stood in the doorway, awkwardly hovering next to the man Peter had almost gotten used to as his tail and near constant companion. The light through the windows was dim, a mark of early,  _early_  morning. It didn’t feel like it could’ve been past five. Already, the feel of the dream was retreating from him, sinking down into his chest to add to the weight. He never forgot those kinds of dreams when he woke, just kept them around, safely sheltered and rubbing his insides raw.   
  
With a last slow blink just in case Peter sat up on the sofa, rubbing at the sore spot on his thigh where the bottle had pressed into it since he’d gone to bed at one.   
  
“Yeah? What’ve we got this time?”   
  
Clearing his mind in the morning came easier and easier every day, but he wasn’t sure of the effect it was having on his subconscious. Repeated rejection did something, it had to, but there was nothing he could do just yet. This world was no place for hope.   
  


‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’

  
  
On the cold twin bed upstairs in the room he hated to use, Peter squeezed his eyes shut as he rubbed his temples. Another long couple days and he was back here, alone, all but under house arrest until the next big thing, until they reluctantly admitted for maybe the twentieth time that they could actually use him. When they’d said goodbye at the lab Olivia hadn’t even looked at him, and the discrepancy had hurt him more than the exhaustion. He could still remember the way  _his_  Olivia tasted, the way she smiled against his neck when he held her, the way she kissed him when it was hello and the difference there when it was a temporary goodbye.   
  
His eyes were shut so tight they hurt, blocking out nothing. He’d already dragged the shades down to cut out the light from the street lamp. With his thumbs rubbing hard over his cheekbones, his own half hesitant whisper filled the darkness.  
  
“Don’t dream tonight. Don’t dream tonight. Don’t dream tonight.”   
  
Maybe if he didn’t, he’d keep something of the sanity he could feel hanging by a thread. Right now, sanity was all he had. If he could keep it, hold onto it as tightly as his mind clearly wanted to hold on to the memories it dredged up to stab him with, he just might could find a way to get himself home. Properly home, to a place where it was all real, nothing a figment of dreamscape holograms.   
  
If it worked, it might help. It just might, even though his words trailed off early, choked out by the clawing voice in him still desperate for whatever scraps he could get. Maybe he  _would_  dream tonight, maybe he’d be with Olivia and Ella in the park. She’d be laughing at the kangaroos, and he’d pulled Olivia next to him to steal a kiss.   
  
Maybe. And maybe tomorrow, he’d be strong enough to keep the mantra up. 


End file.
